


Let Me Call You Sweetheart (I'm In Love With You)

by goldenicarus



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Falling In Love, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, Light Angst, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Platonic Relationships, Rating May Change, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2018-05-10
Packaged: 2018-12-16 20:46:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldenicarus/pseuds/goldenicarus
Summary: James Barnes expects to arrive in America and marry a woman he cannot force himself to love, due to his step-father's demand.He does not expect to be saved by a starving artist, on a ship doomed to sink.Sam Wilson expects to arrive in America with nothing but the money in his pocket and best friend at his side.He does not expect to fall for a man he cannot love, on a ship destined for death.





	1. Ship of Dreams

_Southampton, England, April 10, 1912_

It’s almost noon on an ailing day, cold with the sun’s light hidden behind clouds and smoke. A crowd of hundreds blackens the pier like ants besides a tremendous ship. On the landing, horse drawn vehicles and lorries move slowly through the dense throng. The atmosphere is one of excitement and giddiness; people embrace in tearful farewells, or wave and shout wishes to friends and relatives on the decks above.

A white Renault, leading a silver Benz, pushes through the crowd, leaving a wake in the press of people. Around the handsome cars, people are streaming to board the ship, jostling with hustling seamen, porters, and barking officials.

When the Renault comes to a complete stop, the driver hurries to open the back door for a young man, who nods his thanks as he exits the vehicle. Dressed in stunning white and purple, he stands out among the crowd, regal of bearing. Yet when storm, piercing eyes first graze over the ship, his expression is one shared by all – wonder-struck and allure outlining his features. For an instant he appears his age, juvenile and merit of eighteen years.

When he hears familiar clicks of heels against the pavement behind him, his admiration falls and is masked with cool appraisal. “So, this is what all the fuss is about? It’s just a big boat.” He comments, head slightly turned over his shoulder.

A personal valet holds his hand out for a young woman as she steps out of the shadows fabricated by their car, her red hair curling over her shoulders. She’s a sight in blue silk, carrying her head high with brimming confidence. To strangers, she radiates the title of royalty as the twenty-year-old heiress she is. To her partner, she appears as unimpressed as he pretends.

“Normally I would say you’re too hard to impress, James.” Her words slur with her Russian accent, “But I must agree. I don’t see the ado.”

From the Benz, an older man drops his bags into his valet’s arms. “You can be blasé about some things, James, but not about Titanic.” He speaks, ignoring his servant’s clear struggle in favor of stepping between the couple, “It’s the largest ship to sail these seas, and the most luxurious.”

The trio make their way towards the boat, their servants left to retrieve all their carry-ons. The older man reaches out to take the redhead’s arm, gesturing to a puddle before her as he warns, “Mind your step, Natalia.”

She only brushes him away, still gazing up at the leviathan. “This is the ship they say is unsinkable, Alexander.”

Alexander Pierce nods up to the vessel, lips pursing together in a tight grin. “It _is_ unsinkable. God himself couldn't sink this ship.” He speaks with the pride of a host providing a special experience. While both Pierce and Natalia study the boat with amazement glittering their eye, James now has his brows knitted together, tight with worry.

Behind the trio, servants gather cases by the bundle, huddling as much as they can into their arms. Brock Rumlow watches over them, tall, impassive, and stern as an undertaker and Pierce’s valet; he ‘helps’ two personal maids of James and Natalia by pushing them along, his palms pressed against the smalls of their backs.

As the group makes their way towards a loading dock, a White Star Line porter scurries toward them, harried by last minute loading. He can only manage a quick greet before Pierce gestures down the dock, at the stumbling servants.

“Take those trunks and twelve more in the Daimler.” He speaks in a dull tone, almost down to the Porter, “We'll have all this lot up in the rooms.”

The man looks stricken when he sees the enormous pile of steamer chests and suitcases loading down the second car, including a steel safe. He whistles frantically for some cargo handlers nearby.

Pierce breezes on, leaving the minions to scramble. He checks his pocket watch, “We'd better hurry. Come along.” He indicates towards the first-class gangway and the trio drifts into the crowd. James’ maid hustles behind them, the most unburdened with bags compared to Natalia’s. Pierce leads, weaving between vehicles, handcarts, hurrying passengers and well-wishers of mostly second class and steerage.

They pass a line of steerage passengers in their coarse wool and tweeds, queued up inside movable barriers like cattle in a chute. A health officer examines their heads one by one, checking scalp and eyelashes for lice. Pierce rolls his eyes at the inspection.

As the group passes a well-dressed man cranking the handle of a wooden camera, James slows his pace; momentarily distracted by the site of the technology, he watches the stranger snap moments of history behind his lens.

When Natalia is jostled by two yelling steerage boys who shove past her, knocking into James, his attention is pulled away from the interest. They are bumped again a second later by the boys' father.

The couple watch the family, listening to the shouts and curses and childish hysterics, before breaking into laughter themselves. “Stay steady.” James teases, helping Natalia straighten and fix her dress.

“Don’t believe I’ve fallen like that since I tripped on stage, what, two years ago?” She says through her remaining tittering, brushing her hair back behind her shoulders.

“And just like then, I caught you.”

“You have a knack for doing so.”

When the Cockney father finally catches his children halfway down the dock, Pierce has joined the couple’s side. He sneers at the family, murmuring through his teeth, “Steerage swine. Apparently missed his annual bath.”

Natalia frowns at the comment, but shakes it off to change the subject, “Honestly, Alexander, if you weren't booking everything at the last instant, we could have gone through the terminal instead of running along the dock.”

“All part of my charm, Natalia.” Pierce starts forwards again, pushing a man aside, “At any rate, it was my darling son’s beauty rituals which made us late.”

It’s James’ turn to frown. “You told me to change.” He moves forward, raising his voice above the noise around them.

“I couldn't let you wear black on sailing day. It's bad luck.” Pierce guides them out of the path of a loaded down, horse-drawn wagon. “Here I've pulled every string I could to book us on the grandest ship in history, and you act as if you're going to your execution.”

James looks up as the hull of Titanic looms over them - a great iron wall, Bible black and sever. Pierce motions him forward, and he enters the gangway to the deck doors with a sense of overwhelming dread. Piece’s hand closes possessively over James’ arm as the black hull of Titanic swallows them.

Outwardly, James was everything a well brought up boy should be. Inside, he was screaming.

~~~

The Titanic, several blocks away, towered above the terminal buildings like the skyline of a city. The steamer's whistle echoes across Southampton.

That was the sight looking through a window of a smoky pub, crowded with dockworkers and ship’s crew. Just inside, a poker game is in progress with four men playing a very serious hand.

Two exchange a glance as the pair of players across the table argue in Swedish. They are artists, having adopted the bohemian style of art scene in Paris. And they are American; one a lanky drifter, no taller than five feet, with his blond hair a little long for the standards of the times, constantly having to be brushed out of his eyes. The other is unshaven, and his clothes are rumpled from sleeping in them. But he is self-possessed and sure-footed, holding himself with a great amount of assertiveness as he watches their adversaries over his cards.

“You’re stupid. I can't believe you bet our tickets.” One of the brothers smacks the other’s arm, dropping the passes onto the center of the table.

“You lost our money. I'm just trying to get it back. Now shut up and take a card.”

Across the table, the brunet settles back in his chair, jaunty as he speaks, “Hit me again, Steve.”

The blond besides him shoots a concerned look, but slides a card his way. When he takes the playing card and slips it into his hand, his eyes betray nothing.

Steve bites his lips nervously as he refuses to take a card. “Are you sure about this, Sam?” He asks, voice lowered to a whisper, words meant only for the other American.

“Just focus on your hand.” Sam shakes his head, now leaning forwards to prop his elbows up on the table.

In the middle of the table sit bills and coins from four countries. And now, sitting on top, are two third class tickets for the RMS Titanic.

Outside the window, the vessel’s whistle blows again. A final warning.

Sam’s eyes jump to the street outside, then back to his cards. “The moment of truth boys. Somebody's life's about to change.” He comments, glancing Steve’s way.

Steve puts his cards down. As do the Swedes. Sam holds his close.

“Let's see. Steve’s got nothing.” He frowns at the blond’s hand, then looks across the table, “Olaf, you’re empty. Sven,” He pauses, “two pair.” Sam lets out a heavy exhale, turning to his friend, “Sorry, Rogers.”

Immediately, Steve is rising from his chair, hands rolling into fists. “What? Sorry, _what?_ ” He demands, gripping Sam’s bicep, “What you got? Did you lose our money?”

Sam shrugs Steve’s hand off, breaking out into a smile, “Sorry, you’re not gonna see Paris again for a long time.” He slaps a full house down on the table, “'Cause we’re goin' back to America!”

The table explodes into shouts of several languages and cheers. “Sorry, boys.” Sam cocks his head at the Swedes, raking in the money from the center of the table.

Olaf balls up one huge farmer's fist. For a moment, the pair believe he's going to clobber Sam and he flinches back, preparing for the impact. But when he swings, it’s at Sven, who flops backward onto the floor from the punch. He goes into a rapid harangue of his stupid brother.

Steve snatches the tickets and then, laughing, throws his arms around Sam’s neck while his back is turned, too busy shoving the money into his bag. The people around them are cheering along, smacking tables, shaking their heads in disbelief. It’s like they won the lottery.

“I’m goin' home,” Sam has to shrug Steve off his back to stand up on his chair, exclaiming to the pub, “to the land of the free and the home of real hot-dogs! On the _Titanic!_ We're practically goddamned royalty!”

Steve must tug Sam down by his sleeve, but he’s smiling wide and bright. “This is like I told you. I’m gonna go back to America, and then I’ll sell art and become a millionaire.” Steve pauses for a moment, then with some laughter he repeats, “I’m going back to America!”

The pub keeper watches, his mustache curling up with his smile. He picks up a glass to dry, and points towards the window as he speaks up, “Titanic’s going to America. In five minutes.”

Their grins simultaneously drop, realization settling in. “Shit!” Sam hastily zips up his bag and tugs it over his shoulder, hooking an arm around Steve’s shoulders, “Come on!”

But, as they reach the door he spins them around, waving to the pub, “It's been grand!” before he’s rushing out the door with Steve in tow. Halfway down the street, the pub keeper calls out to them, waving an item in his hand. Steve skids to a halt, and dashes back to retrieve the sketchbook in the man’s grip.

“Can’t believe I almost forgot it.” He breathes out, nodding a quick thanks to the older man as Sam’s calling him back.

“I’m sure if they knew it was you lot comin', they'd be pleased to wait!” The keeper shouts back, a smile in his words.

Sam and Steve, carrying everything they own in the world in the kit bags on their shoulders, sprint toward the pier. They tear through milling crowds next to the terminal. shouts going up behind them as they jostle slow-moving gentlemen. Bursting out onto the pier, Sam comes to a dead stop, staring at the cast wall of the ship's hull.

The Titanic is monstrous.

When Steve notices, he dashes back around and grabs onto Sam’s arm. “C’mon,” His words are breathless, but his smile doesn’t show any distress or fight for air, “I thought you said you were fast!”

They sprint toward the third-class gangway aft and reach the bottom of the ramp just as an officer begins to detach it. 

“Wait! We're passengers!” Sam calls, flushed and waving the tickets.

The officer takes a step closer, squinting his eyes at the passes, “Have you been through the inspection queue?”

Lying cheerfully, Steve answers, “Of course! And, we're Americans.” He watches the officer eye Sam, suspicious, so he adds, “Both of us.”

The officer bites in the inside of his cheek, but he motions for the gate, “Right, come aboard.”

The gangway is reattached and Steve and Sam practically jump over. The officer glances at the tickets, then hands them through to another man, the name _Rowe_ written neatly on a badge on his chest. Rowe looks at the names on the tickets to enter them in the passenger list.

“Gundersen. And,” He pauses, reading Sam’s, “Gundersen.”

He hands the tickets back, looking between the two men with uncertainty.

Steve only grabs Sam’s sleeve, ready to disappear into the crowd ahead, “We’re brothers.”

“Adopted.” Sam happily plays along.

Steve fights back a snicker, “Come on, Sven.”

The moment they’re out of reach from the officers, the pair whoop with victory and dart down the white-painted corridor, grinning from ear to ear.

“We are the luckiest sons of bitches in the world!” Sam exclaims, pressing against the wall to avoid running into other passengers.

The mooring lines, as big around as an arm, are dropped into the water. A cheer goes up on the pier as seven tugs pull the Titanic away from the quay.

Steve and Sam burst through a door onto the aft well deck, running across and up the steel stairs. When they get to the rail, Sam starts to yell to the crowd on the dock.

Steve only laughs at his friend’s behavior, looking out to the mass below. “You know somebody?”

“Of course not. That's not the point.” Sam shrugs his shoulders, lifting an arm into the air to wave, “Goodbye! I'll miss you!”

Grinning, Steve joins in, adding his voice to the swell of voices, feeling the exhilaration of the moment. “I will never forget you!”

The crowd of cheering well-wishers waves heartily as a black wall of metal moves past them. The bow wave spreads before the mighty plow of the liner's hull as it moves down towards the English Channel, leaving Britain and the safety of land behind.

Steve and Sam walk down a narrow corridor with doors lining both sides, like that of a college dorm. There’s total disorder as people argue over luggage in several languages, or wander in confusion in the labyrinth. They pass emigrants studying the signs over the doors and looking up the words in phrase books, before finding their berth.

It's a modest cubicle, the walls left bare and steel-gray. Four bunks fill the majority of the space. Exposed pipes are overhead, Sam having to duck underneath one in front of the door. Two men are already there, looking at the strangers with bewilderment. Sam only shoots them a smile and throws his kit on a lower open bunk, while Steve takes the one above.

~~~

By contrast, the so-called "Millionaire Suite" is in Empire style, comprised with two bedrooms, a bath, wardrobe room, and a large sitting room. In addition, there's a private promenade deck outside.

In James’ opinion, it was too much. In Pierce’s opinion, it was not enough.

A room service waiter pours champagne into a tulip glass, and hands the fizz to James as he shifts through new paintings. There is a Monet of water lilies, a Degas of dancers, and a few abstract works. They are all unknown paintings, lost works.

Natalia is out on the covered deck, poking at potted trees and vines on trellises as she talks through the doorway, “Your father thinks those mud puddles were certainly a waste of money.”

James doesn’t look her way, tilting his head as he examines a cubist portrait. “And he’s wrong. They're fascinating. Like they’re in a dream. There's truth without logic.” He hears Natalia laugh, short and light, “What's his name again?”

Natalia walks into the living room and stops at James’ side, cocking her head as he does. “Picasso.” She reads off the canvas.

“I think he’s a genius.”

Natalia places a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently, “At least they were cheap.”

They share a smile as she takes the glass from James’ hand. A porter wheels Pierce’s private safe into the room on a hand truck. From one of the connected bedrooms, Pierce’s voice echoes, “Bring that into the wardrobe.”

James enters the second bedroom with the large Degas of the dancers and sets it on a dresser overshadowed by a large vanity mirror. It's one of the only areas in the chamber seemingly not filled with bustling servants and moving furniture; save for Dot, who is occupying her time with hanging up his clothes. When she spies him from the corner of her eye, her expression becomes alight. 

“It smells so brand new. Like they built it all just for us.” She speaks with joy, spinning on her heel as her gaze wanders around the room, "To think that tonight, when I crawl between the sheets, I'll be the first-“

James can detect when the warmth of his room slip away as Pierce enters, glowering at her comment, “Are you humoring us, Deloris? You know better than to believe you’ll be sleeping on fresh sheets, don’t you?”

She goes quiet for a beat, cheeks growing pink with embarrassment. Ducking her head in a near bow, she whispers, “S'cuse me, sir,” and edges around Pierce to make a quick exit. James’ lips press together, keeping his disapproval behind his teeth. Instead, he focuses on straightening the artwork on the wall.

When Pierce comes up behind him and grips James' shoulders, he goes stiff. It feels like an act of possession. “Don’t let them talk like that, James. Some people need to be reminded of their place.” His voice is monotone, lacking in expression. But the pressure against James’ shoulders speaks volumes.

* * *

_Cherbourg Harbor, France_

Titanic stands silhouetted against a purple, post-sunset sky. She's lit up like a floating palace, her thousand portholes reflected in the calm harbor waters. The lights of a Cherbourg harbor complete the postcard image.

Entering the first-class reception room from the tender are several prominent passengers, including a broad-shouldered woman in a bright pink hat, carrying a suitcase in each hand. A spindly porter is dashing to keep up with her.

“Margaret, you should have waited for me to help you.“ The young man scolds.

Margaret's English accent is dense when she replies, “Well, I wasn't about to wait all day.”

When she walks onto the first classes’ main deck, all heads turn to her. James is pulled from his conversation when an older woman Pierce had shoved his and Natalia’s way stops mid-sentence, her words dying on her tongue. Confused, he turns, and his hand slips from where it lied upon Natalia’s upper arm.

“Who’s that?” He murmurs, watching Margaret make her way down the steps, taking in the scenery around her.

Pierce shakes his head. “New money.” He spits the words out like a curse.

The woman stops in her path once more when her study lands on the group, her lips parting before she says, astonished, “Natalia Romanov?”

James raises a brow in surprise, tossing Natalia a curious glance. She appears just as confused, but her countenance shifts within a second; she breaks into a grin, “Margaret Carter!”

Stepping forwards, they share a hug with miles-wide smiles. James hadn’t seen Natalia beam so genuinely in months. Natalia is the one to break their embrace, though she keeps her hands firmly on Margaret’s shoulders, “I haven’t seen you since-“

“Nineteen five. When I left our dance troupe.”

Suddenly, James understands. Margaret Carter, the name of a young girl Natalia grew up dancing with. The woman he would replace three months after her departure. A woman Natalia spoke fondly of when they first met, always with a hint of melancholy, as if she were speaking of the dead. Margaret Carter, a ghost now haunting their land of the living.

A ghost Natalia happily invites back, with cheeks flushed and her eyes glittering with their memories. “I didn’t know you had a ticket.”

“You think I would miss the Titanic’s first voyage? Have you truly forgotten who I am?” Margaret’s words are filled with joy, her energy seemingly contagious as James finds himself smiling along. That’s when Margaret finally notices his presence, her twinkling grin now softening, “And, who’s this?”

Natalia steps back, gesturing him forwards as she answers, “This is James Pierce. My fiancé.”

The words don’t seem to register immediately - Margaret blinks several times, examining the couple, before her eyes widen. “I didn’t know you were getting married.” Her words are quiet, almost to herself. Nonetheless, she holds a hand out to James, her warm smile returning, “It’s nice to meet you.”

He takes her hand gently, as a gentleman should, “Pleasure is mine.”

Margaret tugs his arm, as a lady should not, to pull them closer together. She lowers her voice just barely above a whisper as she speaks, “Congratulations, truly. Natalia’s a great woman.”

James’ throat tightens, but he pushes out a reply, “Believe me, I know.”

“You’re excited, I’d hope.” Margaret’s face is so open, so bright. _Free._ James wishes he could match it.

Instead, he feigns a smile much colder to what she offers, “I feel like I’m going to explode.”

Margaret only laughs, assuming his words to be witty. She doesn’t see the way his manner shifts to despondent when she turns away.

~~~

The ship glows in the warm light of late evening. Two young Americans stand at the bow, gripping the curving railing. Steve Rogers leans over, looking down fifty feet to where the prow cuts the surface like a knife, sending up two glassy sheets of water.

Underneath, the enormous bronze screws chop through the sea, hurling the steamer forward and churning up a vortex of foam that lingers for miles behind. Smoke pours from the funnels as the riven water flares higher at the bow and the ship's speed builds.

Up the prow stands Sam, the wind streaming around him. He contently watches the white V of water hurled outward from the bows like an expression of power. He feels invulnerable, towering over the ocean.

Steve leans out further, watching the glassy bow-wave, before he looks forward across the Atlantic. He takes a small step back then, nudging Sam’s side. “I can see the Statue of Liberty already.” He smiles, “It’s very small, of course.”

Sam only laughs, curving an arm around his friend’s shoulders, framed against the sea.

* * *

_April 11 th, 11:45 a.m._

“She is the largest moving object ever made by the hand of man in all history,” The sound of utensils scrapping against china interrupt the Managing Director’s voice, but Bruce Ismay continues with a smile, “and our master shipbuilder, Mr. Andrews here, designed her from the keel plates up.” Ismay gestures to the handsome Irish gentleman at his right, and Thomas Andrews nods to the rest of the table as he takes a seat.

A group of affluent individuals have assembled for lunch. Andrews is seated with Pierce, James, Natalia, Margaret, and Ismay in a beautiful, sunny spot enclosed by high arched windows, known as the Palm Court. Rumlow stands guard by the doors.

Andrews, disliking the unexpected attention, tries to brush off Bruce’s praise, “Well, I may have knocked her together, but the idea was Mr. Ismay's. He envisioned a steamer so grand in scale, and so luxurious in its appointments, that it’s supremacy would never be challenged. And here she is.” He knocks the table, “Willed into solid reality.”

Margaret purposely drives her knife into her plate, and the White Star men across the table wincing. “Why are ships always being called ‘she’?” Margaret questions, using the moment of awareness, “Is it because men think half the women around have big sterns and should be weighed in tonnage?” The men of the table laugh, save for James. He’s too enthralled in his thoughts, his eyes boring holes into the menu in his lap, to pay any attention. Margaret purses her lips together as the table’s laughter dies out; her question hadn’t been meant as a joke. Natalia offers her a sympathetic smile, before a waiter enters through the doors to take her side of the table’s order.

While she gestures to a meal on the menu, James picks at the table’s surface. He doesn’t understand why he feels on edge and distracted. Perhaps it’s the sunlight streaming through the windows and glittering blindingly off the jewelry on the men’s fingers and the two women’s necks. Maybe it’s due to the tones every individual in this room has, entitlement punctuating each word. It could be the pressure surrounding him, pressing down on his sides from where Natalia and Pierce sit; trying to force him down into the floor. Or it’s nothing at all, and he’s simply going insane.

With a quick inhale, James reaches into his coat’s pocket, gripping the pack of cigarettes like a life line. As he lights one, Pierce is scoffing before it even reaches his lips. “You know I don't like that.” He comments, plucking the smoke from his fingers, and stubbing it out.

The waiter moves on to them, but James can’t look up, as a polite gentleman should. Pierce does so for him. “We’ll both have the lamb.” The words escape through a tight smile. His attention falls to James as the waiter moves on to Andrews, “You like lamb, don’t you?”

Margaret watches the dynamic between them, purposely tapping her nails against her glass. “Are you going to cut his meat for him too, Alexander?” She grins at the older man, but it’s all teeth. Hostile, with a sharp glare to match.

Natalia rests a hand on James’ arm, trying to ease the tension there. She means well, and moves change the subject; “Who came up with the name Titanic? You, Bruce?” She asks, reaching for the breadsticks at the center of the table with her free hand.

Ismay clears his throat before speaking, moving forwards against the table, “Yes, actually. I wanted to convey sheer size. And size means stability, luxury, and safety-“

“Do you know of Dr. Freud?” The table startles when James speaks so suddenly. He doesn’t look up to Ismay as he speaks, his eyes are still staring intently at his lap. And he doesn’t wait for Ismay, or Pierce, to respond to continue, “His ideas about the male preoccupation with size might be of interest to you.”

Natalia chokes on her bread stick, suppressing laughter. Pierce has trouble finding the humor in the comment. He grips James’ arm tight, spitting out, “My God, James, what’s gotten into you?”

That’s when James jerks out of his hold and rises. He lets out a hasty, “Excuse me,” before he stalks out, shoving Rumlow away when the servant tries to block his exit.

Pierce stays, mortified. “I do apologize. He’s been in a mood since this morning.” He speaks to Ismay and Andrews, who had since found interest in their plates.

Margaret’s eyes stay on James, watching him through the glass doors as he walks down the deck. “He’s a pistol, Natalia.” She says, her voice lowered some, “You sure you can handle him?”

The redhead shrugs her shoulders some, seemingly unconcerned by the outburst. “James has always been somewhat of a hothead, even in the Red Room. He just needs to cool his head.”

“Well, I may have to tighten my supervision like I did back then, too.” Pierce speaks as if they were talking about a misbehaving pet.

Margaret and Natalia share a look, then a nod, and Margaret excuses herself from the table.

~~~

Sam reclines on a bench in the sun, Titanic's wake spread out behind him to the horizon.

Besides him, Steve has his knees pulled up, supporting a leather-bound sketching pad. With his crayon he draws rapidly, using sure strokes as his eyes drink in the scene to his left. An immigrant and his three-year-old daughter stand on the lower rung of the rail. She is leaning back against his stomach, watching the seagulls. The sketch captures them perfectly.

Sam looks over Steve’s shoulder, and he inclines appreciatively. “You’re making me wish I had a camera, Rogers. I’m missing out on so many great shots.” He ruffles up Steve’s hair, earning a light smack with the sketchbook against his arm.

“You’d just take pictures of me drawing. ‘S what you always did.” Steve playfully argues, resuming his position.

“Didn't I say I was missing great shots?” Sam’s words carry a hint of laughter.

Steve looks up from his sketch, smiling wide. Sam returns it, and attention briefly moving across the deck. The grin slips from his lips then, replaced with awe. At the aft railing of the B deck promenade stands a young man, clad in a yellow trimmed suit and white gloves. Sam’s unable to tear his eyes away.

They are roughly sixty feet across from each other, with the well deck like a valley between them. The stranger in his promontory, Sam on his much lower one. He stares out to the water, completely unaware of the infatuated man below. Sam watches him run his hands through his hair, his shoulders moving as he lets out a sigh from his lungs, as if he could release his problems in that breath. Sam is riveted; he looks like a figure in a romantic novel, sad and isolated.

Steve taps Sam’s arm to snap his friend out of the trance. It’s one moment too late. The stranger turns suddenly, gaze landing on Sam. Though he’s caught staring, Sam doesn’t break their contact. The younger man does, as if embarrassed to have noticed. But then, after a beat, he glances back. Their eyes meet across the space of the well deck again. Across the gulf between worlds.

For that moment, Sam knows nothing but bright, steel eyes which seem so close to overflowing, misery and pain locked behind. Then, he knows he wants to ease that suffering. He knows this boy is beautiful.

When a taller woman appears behind the stranger, gently reaching for his hand, their entrancement is broken. The man is quick to react, jumping away from her touch. Steve leans forward on the bench, following his friend’s gaze up to the deck. When he sees the newcomer, he thinks he understands why.

With a low whistle, he shakes his head. “ _Wow_. Forget it, Sammy. We’d sooner grow wings and fly to America before getting next to the likes’a her.”

Sam only responds with a quiet hum, eyes on the strangers as the woman turns to lead them back inside. Her eyes trail down the deck as she does so, over to the duo. However, it’s Steve’s eyes she locks with - for only a breath - before turning away.

Both men watch the couple disappear, individually attempting to calm their fast-beating hearts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally up! I was debating whether to split this monster into chapters, or wait until I was happy with the final section of it. I figure that splitting it up and giving myself deadlines will force myself into working on finishing it.  
> This first chapter was originally meant to be the first 2, but where the first chapter "ended" felt off, so I combined them. Chapter 2 may be up in another month; I'm pretty sure if I keep updating consistent with giving me a month to edit each chapter, I'll end up being happier with them.  
> Hope you guys like it! So happy to finally be uploading this!  
> Feel free to leave comments here or message me on tumblr:  
> goldenicarus.tumblr.com  
> My Twitter: @IcarusGolden


	2. First Fracture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Leave a comment if you enjoy! Next update should be next month!  
> Tumblr: goldenicarus.tumblr.com  
> Twitter: @IcarusGolden

_April 11th, 11:08 p.m._

James sits reserved and still, flanked by important people in unimportant conversation. Pierce and Rumlow are laughing together, while on the other side of their table Margaret is holding forth animatedly. James doesn’t care to hear what they are saying. He’s staring at his plate, barely listening to the inconsequential babble around him.

He saw his whole life as if he'd already lived it. An endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches. Always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. He felt like he was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull him back. No one who cared. No one who noticed.

James walks alone along a corridor an hour later. A steward coming the other way greets him, so he nods with a contrived smile - completely composed.

He enters his bedroom only to stand at it's center, staring at his reflection in the large vanity mirror. He takes himself in, with neatly combed hair and wrinkle-less, steam-pressed suit. He was the very definition of perfect. He looked inhuman, like a doll. Ten years of this, he realizes. Ten years too long.

With a primal, anguished cry he claws at his throat to rip off his necktie. In a frenzy, he tears at himself, his clothes, his hair - then the room. He flings everything off his dresser and they clatter against the wall; a hand mirror crashes against the vanity, cracking it.

Only briefly glancing at himself through the fracture, James shoves the door of his room open, nearly running into an elderly woman as he dashes into the hall. He doesn’t apologize as he spins on his heels and hurries along the deck promenade, disheveled.

His eyes sting and his throat begins to feel tight. He thinks he’s crying, for his cheeks feel wet, but the tears streaking down his face are hot. _Angry_. He’s shaking with emotions he doesn't understand; hatred, self-hatred, desperation. He can think of only one solution to be rid of them.

~~~

Sam is kicked back on the benches, watching the stars blazing gloriously overhead as a cigarette hangs from his lips. Steve is on the bench besides his own, sound asleep. His sketchbook still opened on his chest and hands covered in crayon – the start of a new sketch smeared upon a page.

Hearing footsteps rapidly approaching, Sam starts to sit up as James sprints down the stairs from the well deck. He doesn't see Sam in the shadows, running across the deserted fantail with hitched breath and another sob he tries to suppress.

James slams against the stern’s railing and clings there, desperately trying to fill his burning lungs. He stares out at the black water, letting the sound of the ocean’s waves deafen his thoughts. Then, he starts to climb over the railing. His action is clumsy, moving methodically as he turns his body and gets his feet on the white-painted gunwale. He turns his back to the railing, facing out toward darkness. Sixty feet below him, the massive propellers are churning the Atlantic into white foam, and a ghostly wake trails off toward the midnight horizon.

He leans out, arms straightened and eyes downcast into the hypnotizing vortex below. His undone jacket and hair are shifted by the wind of the ship's movement. The only sound, above the rush of water below, is the flutter and snap of the Union Jack above him.

Then a voice, deep and soft: “Don’t do it.”

James startles at the words, pulling himself back towards the railing as he whips his head around. It takes a second to focus on the man just a few feet away, standing casually with his posture slouched and hands in his pockets. But his expression is knitted with concern.

“Stay back.” James warns, hating the way his voice cracks.

Sam ignores the caution, allowing his eyes to trail over James’ face. He recognizes him; knows those same wide, isolated eyes and flushed tear-tracked cheeks in the faint glow from the stern lights. Taking a half step forwards, Sam pulls his right hand out of his pocket and outstretches it, “Just take my hand. I'll pull you back in.”

James only tightens his grip on the railing. “Stay where you are,” He says again, “I mean it. I’ll let go.” He leans further from the banister, as if to put meaning behind his threat.

Sam doesn’t buy it. “No, you won’t.” Is his response, taking another step.

James doesn’t notice his movement, too perplexed by the statement. “What do you mean I won’t?” He snaps, “Don’t presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don’t know me.”

“You woulda done it already.” Sam points out, gesturing to the small space now between them. Then, stretching his arm out again, he repeats, “Now come on, take my hand.”

James is confused more than anything. He doesn’t know this man, so why is he trying so hard to help him?

He can't see Sam well through his blurred tears, so he wipes them away with one hand, almost losing his balance. “You're distracting me, go away.” He turns back to the water, hoping to simply block out the stranger behind him.

“I can't. I'm involved now.” Sam argues, moving as close as he can allow himself to get, “If you let go I have to jump in after you.”

James almost laughs, “You’ll be killed.”

“I’m a good swimmer.” Sam starts to remove his jacket, shrugging it down his arms.

“The fall alone would kill you.”

“It would hurt. I’m not saying it wouldn’t.” Sam unlaces his left shoe, dropping it behind him, “To be honest, I’m more concerned about the water bein’ so cold.”

The comment makes James tense; the reality factor starts to sink in. “How cold?” He asks, turning his head to glance over his shoulder. He watches Sam start to unlace his right shoe before he answers.

“Freezing. Maybe a couple degrees over.” He pauses to leave the shoe with the other, then opens his arms somewhat, as if to show James how serious he was. “Ever been to New York?”

James eyes him with a furrowed brow, but shakes his head. “I’m from…Indiana.” He catches himself from answering _'Moscow’._

“Well, we have some of the coldest winters around,” Sam’s hands have returned to his pockets, moving close enough to the railing to peak over the edge. James doesn’t move an inch away; Sam considers that progress. “I grew up in Rochester. Once when I was a kid, my father and I were ice-skating out on Lake Ontario…” He trails off then, looking to James to clarify, “Ice-skating’s where you put blades on your shoes and-“

James resists’ the urge to roll his eyes. “I know what ice-skating is!”

Sam smirks at the little outburst. “Sorry. You just look like kind of an indoor guy.” James’ hard look softens a little. Sam thinks he sees the beginning of a smile quirking at the corners of his mouth. “Anyway, I went through some thin ice. And I'm tellin' you, water that cold,” He nods over the railing, “like down there? It hits you like thousands a’knives. You can't breathe, can't think. ‘least not about anything but the pain.” James looks back to the black below, dragging his lower lip between his teeth.

Sam pulls his hands out of his pockets, testing James a little more when he moves close enough to stand beside him. “Which is why I'm not looking forward to jumping in after you.” He adds, and James frowns, “But like I said, I don't see a choice. I guess I'm kinda hoping you'll come back over the rail and get me off the hook.”

James shakes his head some, the knuckles of his hands turning white. But Sam had been right before; just the hint of a smile is starting to spread over James’ lips. “You're crazy.”

Sam chuckles, quiet. It makes James’ chest feel a bit lighter. “I’ve heard that plenty of times. But with all due respect,” Sam’s movements are slow and his voice hushed, as if he were speaking to a spooked animal, “I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship.” James shakes his head again, but he’s watching the water with what Sam wants to believe is fear. Maybe regret. “Come on.” He offers his hand once more, “You don't want to do this. Give me your hand.”

James lifts his head and stares at this madman for a period. His eyes prickle from the frigid air and the world behind them blurs, but Sam’s close enough now for James to truly  _see_ him. He feels as if he knows this face, though the worry etched into his features was replaced with wonder. James can see his eyes, too – a gorgeous shade of hazel. Suddenly, they fill his world. He doesn’t hear the crashing of waves against the ship’s hull. Nothing clouds his thoughts and feeds his anxiety. He can’t focus on anything except this man. This beautiful, insane man, bathed under the night’s light. The only person on this ship who cared.

James nods, slow and sure.

He unfastens his left hand from the rail and reaches around. Sam meets him halfway to take it firmly, almost like a handshake. He even smiles and says, “I'm Sam Wilson.”

And James, voice quavering, returns it, “Pleased to meet you, Mr. Wilson.”

James starts to turn quickly. Now, the height of the ship is terrifying. He is overcome by a wave of vertigo as he shifts his footing, trying to face the ship. As he starts to climb his pant leg gets snagged, one foot slipping off the edge of the deck. He plunges, letting out a piercing shout. Sam, still gripping his hand, is jerked toward the rail. James barely has time to grab a lower rail with his free hand.

“Sam!” Is all James can let out, though a beg for _‘help’_ is evident in his panicked tone.

Sam, pushing back against the banister, squeezes his grip on James’ hand like a reassurance. “I've got you, I won't let go!”

Sam tugs James’ arm with all his strength, bracing himself on the railing with his free hand. James tries to get foothold on the smooth hull. When Sam attempts to lift James’ body over the railing, he can't get any purchase and slips back. Another scream rips out of his throat. Sam, awkwardly clutching James by whatever he can get a grip on as he flails, manages to get him over the railing in a second attempt. They fall together onto the deck in a tangled heap, spinning in such a way that Sam winds up hovering above him.

James can only stare up, back into warmth and safety and compassion mixed in brown shades - his breath catches in his throat. Sam was close before, but now, with their noses nearly touching, their contact feels dizzying. Intimate.

“The hell!” The Quartermaster’s voice rings through the air, followed by racing footsteps. He had been up on the docking bridge when he heard the screams. Now, he’s pulling Sam up and away, revealing James disheveled and dazed on the deck. His jacket is torn, his face flushed red. He looks to Sam - the dark, shaggy steerage man he found on top of a traumatized first-class passenger. Both are breathing as if they’d run a mile, and he starts drawing conclusions. Two seamen dash across the deck to join them.

“You tryin’ to start trouble, boy?” He sneers, pushing Sam back, “Stand there! Don't move an inch!” The seamen slow to a halt a few feet away, confusion clear on their faces. The Quartermaster turns to them, then demands, “Fetch the Master at Arms.”

Minutes later, Sam is being detained by the closest thing to a cop on board. Pierce is right before him, furious. He had rushed out with Rumlow, Natalia, and Margaret when one seaman had called; none had time to pull coats over their evening dress.

Natalia is seated beside James, who is hunched over on a bench. His hands shake violently in his lap, though he waves away the blanket she offers. Pierce is more concerned with Sam. He grabs the younger man by the lapels, demanding through clenched teeth, “What made you think you could put your hands on one of us?” Sam drops his eyes to the floor and opens his mouth to reply, but Pierce interrupts, “Look at me! What the hell did you think you were doing?”

James, whole body promptly shaking with anger rather than fear, rises to his feet, “Alexander, stop! It was an accident.”

The declaration has Pierce spinning, his voice raised with disbelief, “An accident?”

Now, with eyes on him, James fumbles for an excuse, “It was stupid, really. I was just leaning over. And I slipped.” James looks to Sam, maintaining their eye contact. “I was leaning _way_ over, to see the...” He pauses, mind blanking on him. So, he gestures with his hand, moving his fingers in a spinning motion.

“Propellers?” Natalia guesses, and James points to her.

“Yes! And I slipped! I would have gone overboard if Mr. Wilson hadn’t saved me.” James moves towards Sam, “He almost went over himself.”

Pierce’s expression is unimpressed, and his voice is monotone as he restates, “You wanted to see the propellers?”

Rumlow, flexing his arms over his chest, faces Sam to clarify, “Was that the way of it?”

Sam averts his gaze again, this time training on the brunet feet away. James’ eyes are nearly begging him to _keep quiet_. He lets out a heavy sigh, then nods, “That was pretty much it.” He looks at James a moment longer, seeing tension release from his shoulders. Now, they have a secret together.

Margaret steps in, placing a hand on Pierce's shoulder as she announces, “The boy’s a hero then! So, it’s all well. Let’s go back inside. It’s freezing.”

The Master at Arms doesn’t move until Pierce gives a delayed wave, and Sam is uncuffed. Pierce leaves without a second thought. It’s Natalia who stops him in his tracks.

Her voice is quiet as she suggests, “Perhaps a little _something_ for him?”

Pierce stares her down, almost challenging, before removing his wallet from his coat’s inside pocket, “A twenty should do it. Make it fast.”

Natalia takes the money from Pierce’s hand with a tight smile – one that she drops the moment the older man’s back is turned.

She walks passed James, who grabs her arm before she reaches Sam. “You can’t just bribe him away.” He whispers.

“I wasn’t planning to. Your step-father was.”

“He saved me, Natalia.”

They hold each other’s gaze for one beat, then another. It’s a moment of understanding; a familiar act between them, before James releases her with a gentle nod. She approaches Sam with the money already held out.

“You saved my fiance's life. It only seems right to repay you.” She speaks with formality, each letter clear and precise.

Sam eyes the cash for a moment, then shakes his head. “Thank you, but-“

Natalia’s already shoved the money into his hand, adding, “And dinner.”

Sam blinks, his fingers loosely wrapped around the twenty now in his palm. “What?”

“Join us for dinner tomorrow. To tell our group your heroic tale?”

Sam shifts from one foot to another, considering the offer. It’s not until he catches James’ gaze again that he answers, “Sure. Count me in.”

Natalia stands stiffly, “Good. See you tomorrow, then.”

She turns to go, holding her hand out to James once close enough, and he intertwines their arms, though he almost appears to lean into her. Rumlow moves to follow them, roughly shoving Sam aside as he does. Sam just brushes the action off, calling out, “You got a cigarette?”

The servant glances at him with what Sam could consider disgust. Rumlow smoothly draws a silver cigarette case from his jacket and snaps it open. Sam takes one smoke, then another to place behind his ear. Rumlow doesn’t light Sam’s cigarette; he, instead, tosses the lighter to the ground.

“You'll want to tie those.” His voice is low enough to be considered a growl, and he kicks the lighter towards Sam’s shoes. “Interesting that the young man slipped so suddenly, and you still had time to remove your jacket and boots.” Rumlow’s expression is bland, but the eyes are cold. Sam doesn’t humor him with a reaction. After a tense minute, Rumlow turns away to rejoin his group.

~~~

James’ room was clean when he returned. Dot must have straightened things out, either by her own wish or Pierce’s command.

As he undresses for bed, he spots Natalia standing in his doorway, reflected in the cracked mirror of his vanity. Her hands are placed behind her back as she steps into the room. “I know you've been upset, and I won’t pretend to not know why.” Meeting at the vanity, she places a black, velvet jewel case on the desk. James takes it numbly. “Alexander said you intended to save this until the public engagement next week. I’m not supposed to open it yet. But, I want to know what’s in it. I have the feeling you don’t know either.”

James almost smiles, “You broke into Pierce’s safe to get this?”

Natalia shrugs, “Wasn’t hard. His pass-code is his birth date.”

She gently pokes at his arm, and James opens the box with his friend leaning against his shoulder. Inside is a necklace, a malevolent blue stone glittering with an infinity of scalpel-like inner reflections placed at the core.

Natalia’s jaw drops. “My God.” She breathes, “Is that-“

“A diamond.” James answers the question before she’s finished, “Looks like it’s fifty-six carats.”

He gingerly takes the necklace out, watching the light bounce off it, before holding it up to Natalia. “I think it’ll look beautiful on you.”

She takes the jewelry from James’ hand, examining the gem in her palm. “It is gorgeous. You picked a good one.” Her lips quirk up in a slight smirk, and she stands straighter to step behind James. Placing it around his neck, she turns his head up towards the vanity, “But I think it looks more grand on you.”

James keeps his eyes on the diamond, watching it glitter against his reflection. It feels heavy against his throat; like a collar. He tries to ignore the weight now pressing against his chest, “Alexander has talked about this before. It was worn by Louis the Sixteenth. They call it _Le Coeur de la Mer,_ —“

“The Heart of the Ocean.” She translates. 

“It's for royalty.” He continues. His fingers trace around the diamond, drawing his bottom lip between his teeth. Abruptly, he removes the jewelry and turns to Natalia. “And that’s why it’s for you.” He offers a smile.

She laughs and takes the necklace back, only to place it back into the box. “I’ll be sure to thank your father for your gift.”

The two share a moment of silence – one that, maybe once, could have been comfortable. But, as the silence stretches further, the weak smile James had managed begins to fall.

“Nat…” His voice wavers, and he struggles to continue, “We’ll be okay, right?”

Natalia’s calm demeanor grows taut. She runs a hand over the surface of the box, purposely avoiding James’ eyes. “Of course, we will.” She nods, but she winces at her words. She doesn’t believe her lie. “We’ve known each other for a long time. Marriage won’t change anything.”

Watching her posture become more rigid, and hearing her articulation become more forced and practiced, makes James feel pressure against his chest return. “But, maybe if we ask again-“

“It won’t matter.” She interrupts, her jaw snapping shut at the action. She waits to collect herself before persisting, “Even if we call it off, our families will still find a way to make it happen. There isn’t much we can do.”

James’ attention returns to the mirror; examining the largest crack splinter down from the top left to the bottom’s center - between them. His tongue feels heavy in his mouth when he opens it once more, “But, we can still try.”

“James!” His eyes snap to Natalia, his shoulders hunching over at her raised voice. She watches him only for a moment before composing herself, ensuring her words are softer when she speaks again, “I’m done talking about this.”

She picks up the jewel’s box and wanders back to Pierces’ closet, to his safe, to return it. “Thank you for the necklace.”

Her words were empty, her tone dead. Like his step-father’s gift, it held no meaning. It was a cold stone. A heart of ice.


	3. Over Exposed

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you guys like this chapter! Next update will be in November!  
> Feel free to leave comments here or message me on tumblr: goldenicarus.tumblr.com  
> My Twitter: @IcarusGolden

_Saturday April 12th , 12:28 p.m._

James moves onto the enclosed promenade with purpose. He only pauses his stride when he steps into the sunlight, taking the sensation in; as if he hadn’t felt the sun in years.

Then, he unlatches the gate and heads to the third class. The social center of steerage life is stark by comparison to the opulence of first class, but it’s a loud and boisterous place.

There are mothers with crying babies, kids running between the benches shouting in several languages, then being scolded in several more. There are old women yelling, men playing chess, girls doing needlepoint and reading dime novels. Three boys, shrieking and laughing, are scrambling around to chase a rat under the benches; causing general havoc.

Sam is playing with the three year old Steve had sketched yesterday – her name is Amanda, they had come to learn. The two are making funny faces together, Sam over-exaggerating his expressions to make the young girl burst into giggling fits.

Steve sits on a bench a few feet away, drawing the ordeal. On occasion, Sam will shoot a smile he always returns. Until someone catches his eye and freezes his stare to the gate. Sam, curious, follows his gaze. James strolls towards them with his head held high, and a single thought races through Sam’s mind: _he’s a prince._ The activity in the room halts and a hush falls. James feels somewhat self-conscious as the steerage passengers stare openly; some with resentment, others with awe. Yet, when Sam finally spies him, James manages a smile.

“Hello, Mr. Wilson.” James greets formally, as if he were speaking to another first class passenger. Steve is floored, eyes dancing between the outsider and his friend.

Sam grins - clearly amused - and rises to simply reply, “Hello, again.”

James’ own smile grows just slightly, though the sensation of hundreds of eyes burning into his back has it falter a moment later. “Could I speak to you in private?” He asks, glancing towards Steve. The blond only narrows his eyes, quietly taking in the details of James’ character.

It’s not until Sam’s gesturing back to the gate with a quick nod and, “After you,” that James turns away, now lowering his head as he passes their bystanders. Sam follows close behind, glancing once over his shoulder with an eyebrow raised at Steve.

They leave a stunned silence behind.

~~~

Sam and James walk along the first class deck in rhythmic pace. They pass passengers reading and talking in steamer chairs, some of whom glance curiously at the mismatched couple. Sam feels out of place, understandably so. They are both awkward for varied reasons. Sam attempts to break their prolonged silence with a sharp cough, “So, you got a name?”

James pauses his measured steps at the question, recalling the previous night. They had a _very_ brief introduction before chaos ensued. He nods almost apologetically and answers, “James Buchanan Barnes.”

He’s surprised at Sam’s following laughter. “I may need you t’write that down.” He admits, “Got something shorter I can call you?”

 _This_ question throws James off guard – he didn’t think people truly cared what his name was. He’d be forgotten and pushed to the side by the end of the conversations, or simply referred to as ‘Pierce’s boy’ in the past. Anyone remembering his full name was a rarity; requesting a nickname, even more so.

He gives his answer a considerate amount of thought, eventually suggesting, “People use to call me Bucky when I was younger.“

“Bucky.” Sam repeats the name slowly, as if he were savoring it. James’ heart flutters when he smiles afterwards, “I kinda like that.”

James laughs, breathless and disbelieving. “Mr. Wilson, I-“

“Sam.” He corrects.

“Sam...” James mimics Sam's tone, relishing the sense of **sentiment** the name provides. The silence that falls between them grows uncomfortable and James lets out a heavy breath. Running a hand through his hair, he starts down the terrace again, “I feel like such an idiot. It took me all morning to get up the nerve to face you.”

Sam follows a step behind, looking out to sea. “Well, here you are.” He offers some comfort, shrugging his hands into his pockets.

“Here I am.” James murmurs. When he suddenly turns on his heels, Sam must take a half-step back to avoid impact. “I want to thank you. Not just for pulling me back, but for your,” He pauses, trying to find the right word. For his care, his concern, his, “discretion.”

Sam simpers, tipping his head to the side. “You're welcome. _Bucky_.”

The nickname dumbfounds James; he catches himself from laughing aloud. “I know what you must be thinking,” He starts, “Poor little rich boy. What does he know about misery?”

“That's not what I was thinking.” Sam interrupts. When James regards Sam again, his sunlit expression is gone, “What I was thinking was, what could have happened to hurt this guy so much he thought he had no way out.”

James inspects Sam for a passing minute, feeling the weight of his words press into his shoulders, his chest, around his lungs. This time, James doesn’t keep the words in his head to himself. “I don't...it wasn't just one thing.” He confesses, wandering to the edge of the deck. “It was _everything_. It was them, it was their entire world. It felt like I was in a crowded room screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one even looked up.” James glances down towards the sea rushing by, following his reflection in the blue waves.

His jaw clenches, watching the wind fuss with his neatly combed hair. He recalls smoothing it back in his smashed mirror; Pierce been despotic that morning when he saw the glass. James hadn’t listened to what he had said. He felt like he was running on autopilot all morning, at least until he’d decided to skip lunch with Natalia to find Sam. He told only Margaret of his departure.

“I just had to get away.” He finds himself continuing, gripping onto the railing. “Just run and run. Then I was at the back rail and there was no more ship. Even the Titanic wasn’t big enough to get away from them.” James hears gentle steps reach his side, but he doesn’t turn towards Sam. He fears if he does, he’ll force his admission back into his throat, where it will continue to burn. “Before I’d thought about it, I was over the railing. I was just so angry. Thought I’d show them. They’d be sorry.”

Sam leans his back against the edge of the ship, his eyes on James rather than the ocean below. “They would be sorry.” He agrees, “'Course, you’d be dead.”

James tightens his lips into a thin line, his brows furrowing together. When he lowers his head, he mutters, “God, I am such an idiot.”

Sam frowns at the words. He nudges James’ arm gently and waits for him to peer up, “That penguin last night, is he one of them?”

“Penguin?” James blinks, then straightens when realizing, “Oh, Pierce. Yeah. He _is_ them.”

A sympathetic hum resonates in the back of Sam's throat, “Is he your father?”

James shakes his head. “Step-father. My mother remarried after my father died.” His posture relaxes as he turns to face Sam, “Then my sister and I moved to Russia after she passed, because _he_ wanted to.”

“I don’t wanna sound rude, but – Why?”

James’ shoulders shrug up at the question, and he kicks at the wooden floor of the deck, “I tell myself it was desperation. We needed money and he had it. So, she married Alexander Pierce.”

“Pierce.” He hears Sam repeat, and he braces himself for the next inquiry, “Why don’t you have his name?”

“I do. But, I don’t feel like a Pierce. I never want to be like him.” He glimpses up at Sam, prepared for the look of disappointment which always follows the explanation. But Sam doesn’t appear angry, or puzzled. His expression is open, watching James with a fond study. With a gentle nod, Sam encourages him to continue.

So, he does: “My sister was smart. She left Russia the moment she could. Got back to Indiana. She got married in December. She’s Rebecca _Procter_ , now.” James’ attention turns back to the sea; Titanic was meant to dock in New York. Perhaps he can see her again, should Pierce allow it. “I’m happy she got away from all this but,” A frown returns to his lips, “I regret not running with her.”

Sam stays quiet throughout most of the story, piecing together James’ life through the information he’s providing. “And the redhead.” He recalls the previous night again, purposely changing the subject, “You’re getting married?”

“Not by choice." James' voice sounds disconnected, "Either of ours.”

“Really?” Sam shifts closer to James’ side, brushing their arms together, “I mean, I saw her ring last night. I remember thinking ‘God, look at that thing!’ If you’d been wearing that and jumped, you woulda gone straight to the bottom of the sea.” The comment manages to get James to laugh, and Sam joins him. It’s not until a passing steward scowls at Sam that James stops.

“So,” Sam doesn't pay the man any attention, stepping away from the hull to continue their way down the deck, “you feel like you're stuck on a train you can't get off, 'cause you're marryin' this girl on your step-man’s wishes.”

James perks up at Sam’s simplified clarification, “Yes, exactly!”

“Do you love her?”

He stumbles, looking to Sam with bemusement, “What?”

“Do you love her?” Sam repeats.

James opens his mouth, then shuts it again, eyebrows rising in astonishment at the forwardness. “I’ve known her since I was six. Natalia, she’s funny. Kind. Liberated-“

“That’s not what I asked.” Sam says, turning to grab hold of James’ arms, “Do you love her? Romantically?”

James inspects Sam’s features, looking for any reason for his interest. Eventually, he just shakes his head, “No. Not like I should.”

“Then don't marry her.” Sam suggests the option as if it’s obvious; and perhaps it is. Obvious, yet unattainable.

“If only it were that simple.” James steps away, out of Sam's arms. At first, only Sam's eyes follow James down the terrace, watching as the other begins to close in on himself. Then, he places himself directly at James' side, close enough for their shoulders to brush as they step forwards together. James doesn't object. The couple finds themselves on the promenade deck; Sam leans his elbows against the railing, observing the sky as it begins to shift to a deep azure, while James spies a man below - holding up a folding Eastman Kodak and aiming it towards the sea.

Sam removes a cigarette from his jacket's pocket and sticks it into his mouth, trailing James’ gaze downwards. “He’s not gonna get any worthy pictures.” He speaks around the unlit smoke.

James spares him a glance, then looks back to the photographer. “How do you know that?”

“When you angle a camera, you gotta move away from the sun.” Sam explains the process with ease, removing the cigarette from his lips, “Otherwise, all your photos will have too much exposure.”

James lifts his head, surprised by Sam’s knowledge on the subject, and shifts a bit closer along the rail. “You’re a photographer?” He guesses.

Sam beams at the title. “Sorta. As you can see, I lack a camera. But if I had one, I could use it.” Sam watches the stranger position the camera against his chest, outstretching the lens. There's the slightest click which is nearly drowned by the ocean, before he steps back. The photo he releases displays the scene in black and white, failing to replicate the calm blue sky, sparkling jewelry, and bright clothing of the passengers. Regardless of the absent colors, the photograph is useless - there's a large streak of light across the picture. _Over exposure_. Twisting his body to lean sideways against the rail, Sam asks, “You ever use one?”

James shakes his head in reply. “No. I’ve always been the one _in_ the photos.” The stranger below lets the inept picture flutter to the deck’s floor, turning the camera in another direction to try again, “You have experience with cameras, then?”

“I took pictures while I was in Paris.” Sam twirls the cigarette between his fingers. James watches, seemingly transfixed, before reaching into his own coat pocket and retrieving his lighter.

“France seems to be the place creative minds flock to.” He offers the light to Sam, who takes it contently. As it’s passed, their fingers briefly meet, and James feels electricity; he jerks away hastily. 

“You’re not wrong.” Sam pauses to light the cigarette, taking a long drag from it. “That’s where I met Steve, and, well,” He smiles, exhales a breath of smoke, and offers the cigarette to James, “starving artists gotta stick together.”

“Is Steve a photographer too?” He asks, considering the smoke. Hesitantly, he takes it.

Sam seems to laugh at the mere idea. “God, no. Kid wouldn’t know how to take a good photo if his life depended on it. He draws absolute masterpieces, though.” He shoves away from the railing and James follows, still holding the cigarette in an unsteady hand, “It was my first month in Paris. I was all set up, taking photos of the tower they got, and this scrawny little blond came up beside me an’ started unpacking his shit.” Sam’s smile grows. James finds it contagious. He puts the cigarette between his lips to smother the grin.

“At first, I figured he was there to draw the tower, but I started noticing the way he kept looking up at me, then down at the paper. I turned to him and asked him if I could help him with something, and his response?” Sam continues to move as he turns on his heel to face James completely, lowering his voice to a humorous tone, “‘Stop moving. It’s hard to trace your face.’” James nearly chokes on the smoke in his lungs when he laughs.

Sam holds his hand out, and James passes the cigarette back. “I told him I didn’t give him consent to draw me, he said he was aware of that.” He continues, slowing his steps as they reach the edge of the narrow corridor, “So, in retaliation, I took a photo of him. We exchanged a picture for a picture, and the kid hasn’t left my side since.”

James finally lets himself smile in delight, “What happened to your camera?”

“Had to sell it." He takes another drag, "Unfortunately, cameras are worth more than the pictures you take.”

James hums, ignoring the sudden pang of disappointment which settles in his stomach, “What kind did you use to take?”

Sam goes quiet, considering the question. Then, with a modest smirk, “Steve use to tell me they expressed little bit of humanity. An old woman's hands, a sleeping man, a father and daughter. They were like a celebration of the human condition.” James raises an eyebrow at his statement, a playful smile tugging at his lips. “His words, not mine. I just spewed 'em out. They're not worth a damn anyway.” He brings the cigarette back to his lips.

James frowns; the comment sounded forced, as if Sam were parroting someone else rather than speaking his mind. He watches the other breath in, Sam’s eyes back on the ocean, then asks, “So, you didn’t save any?”

Sam’s eyes flicker up to James, the corners of mouth quirking up for a moment. He slows his pace to a halt and reaches inside his jacket, tugging out a small handful of small photos, “Only the ones I approved of.”

James tries not to appear too eager when he takes the collection from Sam’s hand, “That’s an awful small pile.”

“I’m picky.” Sam takes a small step behind him, watching James scan through the pictures from over his shoulder. James tries to disregard the spark which shoots up his body, stimulated by Sam's proximity. He can feel the other’s presence, noting the fact that Sam was an inch taller than himself; James could lean back against the other and fit perfectly. With a slight shake of his head, he rids his mind of the thought and focuses on the pictures.

He spends time on each photo, drinking in each detail in every shot. Sam was a near expert at this art form - not one photo is overexposed, too empty, too crowded. The subject of the shot always draws the eyes in first, but doesn’t fill the frame. Every little aspect of the shot plays into the big picture. After flipping through a few photos, he notices a pattern, and - maybe purposely - pivots closer to Sam.

“Who’s this?” He holds up the current snapshot: a young, black woman stands with her back to the camera, head somewhat turned over her shoulder. She stands still as people and cars blur in the background.

“You interested?” Sam teases.

“You used her several times.”

“She liked bein’ in front of the lens.” He reaches around James’ body to take the photo, leaning forward as he does. James ducks his head from Sam’s, reminding himself to breathe. Sam doesn’t seem to notice as he continues, “We were in the same building in France. She’d come to my room and would ask to take her out for a picture. She showed me some of the best places.”

His eyes soften as he examines the woman. Her expressions were bright in each photo, eyes shining and lighting up the scene with her intensity. James notes his demeanor, and feels a sharp ping in his chest. He doesn't know how to relate it. “You liked her.” He says, his tone certain.

“She was a good subject.” Sam hands the photo back to James, and he moves onto the next: the same girl is posed half in sunlight, half in shadow besides a building. Her hands cover the bottom half of her face, only her bright eyes shining through her dark and curly, bouncy hair.

She's beautiful, he won't deny that. “I think you had a love affair with her.”

Sam laughs, half-stepping away to James’ side. Instantly, James misses his intimacy. “No, no! She was just a great subject.” He insists. James only smiles, and hands the pile back. Their fingers brush together again, but James welcomes the flare of contact this time. He even lets his hand linger for a few seconds longer; if Sam notices, he doesn't show.

“Your friend’s right. You have a gift.” He compliments as Sam stuffs the pictures back inside his coat. His narrows his eyes a bit, searching for humor, so James declares, “You do! You _see_ people. You see how they can light up a world.”

The easy grin, filled with sun and warmth, which had been placed upon Sam’s lips through most their meeting suddenly falls - adjusting to serene. He holds James’ gaze, taking a long drag from the cigarette. Then, with the exhale, “I see you.”

There it is; that piercing stare, soothing yet demanding. A photographer’s study, a concerned stranger, a look which changed James’ life.

“And?” The word is spoken with a bated breath.

“You wouldn'ta jumped.”


	4. A Living Image

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! Holidays had taken priority over writing. Here's to a good new year!  
> Tumblr: goldenicarus.tumblr.com  
> Twitter: @IcarusGolden

The steerage deck had returned to its’ bustling atmosphere after James and Sam’s departure.

After waving off curious passengers and their questions of, “Who was that?”, “Where are they going?”, “Is Wilson in trouble?”, Steve had managed to turn back to his work with a fresh page.

Though, he found the questions stir in his mind and dim his concentration; the upper-passenger seemed familiar, though Steve couldn't place why. _Was_ Sam in trouble? Steve likes to believe he would have said something.

The shaded picture of the strangers’ face now fills the page, perfection overthrowing curiosity. Steve was focused intently on the outline of an eye when a hush fell over the deck again, followed by the sharp clicking of heels. When he glances up towards the gate, the crayon in his fingers slips to the floor. A stunning woman exists before him five ticks later; standing tall with hands on her hips, pink Edwardian hat atop her head, and lips a bright shade of red. Steve thinks, for just a moment, she's a breathing painting.

“I recognize you.” She says, insistent and poised, “Are you friends with a Mister Wilson?”

Steve is snapped out of his interest at Sam’s mention, taking a moment to _really_ consider this woman: Her unnatural curled hair. Her coat made of fine cotton, not meant to be warm. Her bright makeup, assured tone, elegant behavior. Everything about her screams ‘first class.'

Slowly, Steve reaches to the floor to retrieve his pastel and replies, “Who’s asking?”

The woman huffs, as if the question was purposeless. “My name is Margaret Carter. A friend of my own came down here to meet with him.”

 _Friend of her own._ Now Steve remembers her - the stunning dame he and Sam noticed a day ago, on the upper deck. He then clears his throat and straightens his posture to clarify, “He a brunet with stormy eyes and sharp jawline?”

“Yes.” Margaret’s voice nearly jumps up an octave. Steve bites back a grin.

“Never seen him.” He returns his attention to his sketchbook. Sam having two upper-class passengers searching for him didn't settle well, but they could find a way out of whatever trouble he's found himself in.

He hears Margaret complain, yet she persists: “Your friend saved mine, last night.”

Her statement has Steve stiffen. He noticed Sam’s behavior was odd that morning - he was quieter, his mind seemingly distant when he warned of his absence for the evening. Of course he had tried to be a hero.

“Well, I’m not surprised. I know what kind of man Sam is.” He says lowering his crayon, “And I know that people like you would love to tear him apart the moment you get him alone.”

Steve goes quiet after his short outburst, knowing he’s drawn the attention of the room. He expects Margaret to express appall or anger at the claim. Rather, she depicts guilt, and it leaves Steve's chest heavy. Flipping his sketchbook shut, he stands to move away. Perhaps he'd return to his room; the steerage atmosphere was becoming suffocating. “They went to the top deck. That’s all I know.” His words are quiet, meant only for her.

“Thank you.” He hears Margaret reply, though doesn't spare another glance as he moves for the gate until she adds, “I never caught your name.”

Steve shouldn't reply, he knows. Yet, if Sam’s in any sort of trouble, he’ll willingly go down with him: “Steve Rogers.”

Margaret stays back, observing as he climbs up two steps before she calls back: “Steve?” He halts, taking a half-step down to turn, “I’ll watch over your friend. To make sure he’s treated fair.”

Steve regards her as if awaiting the punchline to a joke. She _will_ protect Sam; so he wasn't in trouble. Yet. When the silence only stretches on, Steve gives her a slight smile. “I’ll hold you to that, Miss Carter.”

With that, he leaves. She follows soon after, the scuttle of steerage biting at her heels.

~~~

Sam and James stroll aft, shoulder to shoulder and silhouetted with orange light.

James nudges Sam’s arm to enthusiastically ask, “Do you think I could become an artist?”

Sam almost laughs aloud at the thought. “Maybe. It takes a while to get good enough to sell your talent.” He eyes James for a moment, “Unless you want to be a _starving_ artist. Which, you wouldn't last two days.” He teases, “There's no hot water, hardly any caviar.”

James’ cheerful grin sinks. “I’ll have you know, I hate caviar.” He states, his tone is no longer lively. He says nothing more, arms curling around each other and hugging close to his chest. There are unspoken words hanging in the air, either confessions James doesn't want to - or can't - say. Sam’s taken aback at the sudden shift in emotion. He reaches out a hand to take James’ own, catching his wrist. He half-expects the other to jerk away. Rather, James relaxes.

“I'm sorry.” He says, though he's not sure what for. What he does know is that he wants James to smile again. “Really, I am.”

James looks down at the hand around his own, then back to Sam’s expression - towards hazel, specifically. The worry settled there make James’ mouth quirk up before he’s pulling away and dropping his arms to his sides.

“It’s alright.” He pauses, debating whether to take his confession from the air. “I just feel like there's something in me. Something telling me I should leave everything and, I don't know, be a dancer. I used to dance, before-” James cuts himself off abruptly, and changes subject just as fast, “Sam, what do you plan to do in America?”

Sam knows there is something _more_ , fear keeping it lodged in James' throat. Yet, the expectancy in his gaze is more welcoming than the pain it's replaced. “I definitely need to buy a new camera.” Sam smiles, “I’ll hafta work long enough to get that money. Then I may go to Los Angeles. Steve and I have seen photos of the pier in Santa Monica. I could offer to take photos for ten cents apiece.”

James waits, expecting Sam to continue. When he doesn't, he shifts his attention to the shifting sky and notes, “You have your life planned like that? Just taking risks?”

“It’s familiar. What I use to do. When it got cold, I decided to go to France.”

James hums, his mind wandering. He wishes he could relate to the experience; being able to travel Europe, or the world, doing what he wished. Away from Pierce. Free. James worries his bottom lip, fighting back a frown. Showing distress and bothering Sam again was not something he wished to do.

Still, he turns away from the other man, towards the sky. He thinks he spots a star, breaching through the grey clouds and orange atmosphere. “Why can't I be like you?” He wonders aloud, “Just head out for the horizon whenever I feel like it. Not having anyone over your shoulder to tell you what you can do.”

Sam’s attention was on James the moment he had turned away again. Though it wasn't as obvious this time, he could still pinpoint misery etching into James’ features. However, seeing James outlined by the sun's dying light, Sam's reminded once more how mythical the man seems. Like a Nickelodeon star, always poised for the camera.

 _"A breathing picture,"_ he recalls Steve's comment of Misty Knight their last night in France. _"I'm gonna miss her. She was such a great subject. You don't see many people who look as if they've stepped right out of an artwork."_ Sam had agreed, back then. He wonders if Steve would agree with him now, seeing James in this light.

Such light, he notes, which still highlights his conflict. “They really prep you to be a certain way, don’t they?” He asks, moving just a step closer on the railing, “Rich folks.”

James lets out another strained laugh. It sounds painful. “They plan your whole life out for you, without asking for opinions. They know who you’ll marry, when, how many kids you’ll have. It’s all arranged.”

“They didn’t teach you anything fun?”

The question throws James slightly off guard, and he shoots Sam a suspicious glimpse. “Depends on what your definition of ‘fun’ would be, Wilson.”

Just the hint of a grin finds its way to Sam's lips, and James straightens his posture. “Well, something that always seems to be a hit with people is tickling.”

“Tickling isn’t fun.” He argues, “It's more like torture.”

The mischievous smile grows an inch, crooked a little to the left. It's endearing, James thinks. Then Sam opens his mouth, “You sayin’ that because you aren’t ticklish, or because you are?”

James pushes away from the railing, finally catching onto his game. “Don’t think about testing those waters.”

Sam does; in fact, he doesn’t even test them – he dives, going straight for James’ sides, to which he jumps away. Sam’s prepared, however, already grabbing James’ arm with his free hand to pull him back.

“Sam, don’t!” He shouts, though it loses any real impact when spoken through laughter.

James makes weak attempts to get out of the other man’s grasp, but Sam holds firm. He could lift James right off the ground, if he tried hard enough. When Sam does release his grasp, providing James a moment to breathe, the brunet turns – his face alight and ready to retaliate.

Suddenly, he blanches. The moment Sam notices his expression, he spins around.

James' party stands at the end of the banister, having been observing. The two women have amusement splayed over their lips. Pierce’s expression is hostile. James becomes instantly composed, smoothing his jacket down where it had become bunched up and wrinkled.

Sam provides a smile, seemingly unconcerned with getting caught. “Mister Pierce.” He outstretches a hand.

Pierce says nothing. The others were equally gracious and curious about the man who had saved James’ life. But Pierce looked at him like an insect. A dangerous insect, which must be squashed.

The small group jumps as a butler sounds the meal call behind them. James swallows, avoiding Pierce’s gaze and hurrying to Natalia. “Shall we go get ready?”

Natalia takes effortless steps forward, drawing James close when he provides his arm. They turn towards the opposite end of the corridor, and he glances over his shoulder to mouth, ‘See you at dinner,’ Sam’s way.

His easy smile broadens, and Sam watches them go with short wave before Pierce rigidly turns, hustling to James’ side. His voice is harsh despite its’ whispered delivery, “What were you thinking, wandering off like that.”

They leave Sam and Margaret alone on the deck. Sam keeps his eyes on James’ retreating back until they’ve turned a corner, and finds it difficult to not adjust his attention to the woman. Margaret stays quiet, her eyes flickering up and down his body; either inspecting his attire or his character. Regardless, Sam fidgets under the attention. When her keen gaze meet his, she smirks. “Do you have the slightest comprehension of what you're doing?”

He blinks, surprised by the question but embraced by her pleasant tone. “Not really.” He admits.  _Just feels right,_ stays on his tongue.

“You're about walk into a snake pit.” She tells him, placing a hand on her waist, “Now, I promised someone I would look out for you, but I hope you're ready. What are you planning to wear?”

Sam looks down at his clothes, then back up at her almost sheepishly. He hadn't thought about that. Margaret’s smirk twists into a sincere grin. She reaches for his arm, leading them down the opposite end of the corridor. “I figured. Come with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be posting another chapter this month, rather than wait until February, to make up for the delay and how short this one is!  
> Please leave a comment and kudos if you enjoy this story, it really encourages me to keep writing!


	5. A War of Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!  
> Tumblr: goldenicarus.tumblr.com  
> 

Sam had imagined how the first-class lived upon the ship. Colorful and bright backdrops rather than rusting steel walls, closets twice as large as his own living quarters, an endless supply of servants and maids lining the halls and rooms just waiting to be called into action.

He’s surprised to find Margaret’s entire room is only a foot or two larger than his own. Of course, she shares it with no one else. Though the gray of the ship is covered with deep beige wallpaper, no extravagant paintings or attendants decorate the walls. It appears to be a simple room; far from what Sam expected for a wealthy passenger. Margaret had laughed when he confessed the thought, explaining she had purposely asked for a smaller room.

“I wanted enough space to breathe, but nothing unnecessary.” She had said, “This room has everything I could need for such a short trip.”

Sam had also overestimated the closet sizes of upper-class. Margaret’s wardrobe was, likely, the size of his chamber. However, the amount of clothing strung up and thrown atop each other made it difficult to see the true depth. When she bent down and reached into the closet, Sam took a step back as a rather large case was pulled out. His confused expression was only met with a blinding smile.

Twenty minutes later, suits, jackets, and formal wear are strewn around the room. Margaret was having a fine time tossing coats and ties Sam’s way; he was barely able to keep up with her. Now, he is dressed in a slim, simple black suit. He had done his best to clean up, per Margaret’s request. Seeing himself in the mirror, he thinks he's done a fine job.

Margaret had yet to give her formal opinion, busying herself with fastening his tie. “I knew you and Michael would be the same size.” She muses, bringing the cloth through its’ last hoop and pulling it up to the base of his neck.

She takes a step back only to turn around, picking up a jacket off the bed to hand over. “I’m sure my brother wouldn’t mind if I finally did something with all his clothes. I just couldn’t bear to throw them out.” She continues as Sam takes the layer and slips it over his shoulders to complete the outfit.

He looks at the mirror, tugs at the sleeves, then turns to her with an expectant look. She only beams. “You're going to sweep them off their heels.”

~~~

A purple sky shot with orange is visible through rounded windows along the first-class entrance. Drifting strains of classic music surround the couple as they turn a corner. Margaret had stayed by Sam’s side the entire walk, one arm hooked with his own and ready to jump on anyone who spoke out of line. Thus far, however, they haven’t been bothered.

A steward bows and smartly opens the door to the entrance when they near. Sam plays his role smoothly, nodding with just the right degree of disdain. Yet, his breath is taken away by the splendor spread out before him the moment he steps through the threshold.

Overhead, an enormous glass dome with a crystal chandelier at its center. Sweeping down six stories is the Grand Staircase; the epitome of the opulent naval architecture.  And the _people_ : the women in their floor length dresses, elaborate hairstyles, and abundant jewelry. The gentlemen in evening dress, standing with one hand at the small of the back while speaking quietly.

As they descend, several men offer a perfunctory greeting Sam’s way. He nods back, keeping his act simple while blood rushes his ears. He feels like a spy.

“You’re doing fine.” Margaret says.

“I know.” He replies, desperately searching for distraction. He finds it in her; she’s divine among a room of Gods. The dress she wears is somewhat shorter than most, showing off her legs in what Sam thought upperclassmen would consider scandalous. Yet, she stands with such confidence, he doubts anyone would speak their disapproval.

Her attention stays on the staircase, and Sam doesn't turn his focus there until Pierce wanders down the steps with Natalia trailing. They both pass Sam, neither recognizing him at first. Natalia does two takes before she realizes, and the smile she directs towards him is bright and welcoming. Pierce only nods his way, one gent to another.

Sam barely has any time to be amused. Behind the pair, at the top step, awaits James; a vision in grey and gold trim, his outfit unlike the many identical black suits men around them wear, and his hands sheathed in familiar white gloves. Sam is hypnotized.  As he approaches, Sam imitates the gentlemen's stance with a hand behind his back. James attempts to conceal his amused grin at the sight, copying the position and bowing his head in greeting. Like Sam, James can't tear his eyes away.

“You look amazing.” He says first, before backtracking, “I mean, you blend in well, with everyone.”

“Perhaps that’s a good thing. Come on, boys.” Margaret interrupts, moving both men forwards.  They catch up to Pierce, who narrows his eyes at the sight of his son with a stranger. 

“Pierce, surely you remember Mr. Wilson.” James says, placing a hand on Sam’s shoulder. A friendly gesture which leaves his hand tingling.

Pierce blinks once, then again, caught off guard at the identification. “I didn't recognize you.” He speaks with disdain, a painted smile, and an analyzing gaze. “You could _almost_ pass for a gentlemen.” He concludes, placing emphasis where he deems necessary.

Sam hopes the tightening of his jaw isn't noticeable. 

~~~

As the party enters the dining saloon, Margaret leans close to Sam to speak low, “Remember, the only thing they respect is money, so act like you've got a lot of it.”

As they enter the swirling throng, it’s James’ turn to incline as he detects  a notable across the room. “There's the King T’Chaka. His son was suppose to join the voyage, but he stayed back to be with the Queen when she fell ill. He’s the richest man on the ship. That drives Pierce mad.”

Sam lowers his head in attempt to hide his mirth. Pierce becomes engrossed in a conversation while Natalia and Margaret speak between themselves, allowing James the distraction to pivot Sam - taking ample moments to graze his arm, shoulder, side - and lead them towards royalty.  James bows some when T’Chaka takes notice of their attention. “Your Highness. James Pierce.” He introduces , and the King nods at the familiar name, “I'd like you to meet Sam Wilson.”

T’Chaka gives him one look up then down before extending his hand. As Sam takes it, he knows he can’t wait to brag to Steve, _I shook hands with a_ King _!_

“Good to meet you, Samuel.” T’Chaka speaks with an approving smile. Sam might just stand a little prouder because of it.

James can hear a woman behind him, her voice hushed as she whispers to a counterpart: “It's a pity we're both spoken for, isn't it?”

He can’t help but feel his chest swell. Whether it’s with jealousy or pride, he doesn’t know.

~~~

The dining hall is like a ballroom at a Palace - lit alive by a constellation of chandeliers, full of elegantly dressed people and beautiful music from a small orchestra. James and Sam move ahead of the crowd to their table, already occupied by Howard and Maria Stark. The name was known to James as _co-engineer of Titanic’s engines_ and _second richest on the ship._

James’ head dips in respect as they take their seats with the couple, Sam opting for a place across from James with T’Chaka and Howard.  He figured Sam must have been nervous, but he never faltered. Everyone in the room assumed he was one of them; new money, but still a member of the club. Pierce, of course, could always be counted upon.

“Tell us of the accommodations in steerage, Mr. Wilson.” He speaks with poison, actively searching for a place to bite, “I hear they're quite good on this ship.”

Sam becomes the subject of furtive glances. He doesn’t miss the way James shifts in his seat, flanked by his step-father and  fiancée  \- _trapped_ , he distantly thinks - nor how Margaret holds her knife somewhat tighter besides him.

So, he calmly answers, “The best I've seen. Hardly any rats.”

Natalia laughs, hiding it behind her hand. Margaret relaxes her grip. James lets out a breath. Exasperation passes through Pierce’s features. He’s lost a battle, but pushes beyond the setback, this time involving the table: “Mr. Wilson is joining us from _third_ class. He was of some assistance to my son last night.”

“He's something of a hero.” Margaret intervenes.  Whispers are exchanged between Maria and Howard, who sit taut. Their war of words is brought to a pause as waiters arrive to take orders. 

“How do you take your caviar, sir?” One asks Sam, who shakes his head.

“None, thanks.” His eyes dance across the table, catching James’ within seconds, “Never did like it much.”

James, with a quick intake of breath, looks away. A smile tugs at his lips.

“So,” Stark reignites the battle with his own comment, “where do you live, Mr. Wilson?

James catches a shared look between Howard and Pierce - quick, no longer than a second, yet enough for their exchange. _The wealthy look out for each other,_  he bites down on his tongue to keep the thought in. 

“Well, right now my address is the RMS Titanic. After that, I'm on God's good humor.” Sam speaks with such ease, James wonders if he's bothered by the interrogation at all. 

“You find that sort of rootless existence appealing, do you?” Pierce shifts in his seat, a smug grin already set . He behaves as if he's won.

“It's a big world,” Sam’s anger is hidden behind forged content, “I want to see it all before I go. You can't wait around, because you never know what hand you're gonna get dealt next-"

T’Chaka shows interest in his words.

“I've been on my own since I was fifteen. Somethin' like that teaches you to take life as it comes-"

Maria Stark makes a pitiful sound in the back of her throat.

“To make each day count.” 

T’Chaka raises his glass in a salute. “Well said.”

James follows suit, “To making it count.”

Natalia and Margaret toast with him.  Pierce fumes besides James, annoyed that Sam has scored a point.  He waits until their meal is served to continue pressing, “How is it you have the means to travel, Mr. Wilson?”

Margaret makes a rather harsh cut through her steak, scuffing  the knife across the plate. It's her way to make the point: _Enough._

Sam makes sure to do so. “I work my way from place to place. I won my ticket on Titanic in a lucky hand at poker.” He glances to James; too quick to draw suspicion. Not fast enough for Natalia. “A _very_ lucky hand.” He punctuates his language with a sense of finality ; their war of words is over. 

“All life is a game of luck.” Natalia agrees.

“A real man makes his own luck.” Howard says. Pierce keeps his thoughts silent. Sam’s victorious. 

The rest of the meal passes in quiet mutters between men and women. After dessert has been served and a waiter arrives with cigars in a humidor on a wheeled cart, Margaret presses against Sam’s side.  “Next it'll be brandies.” She theorizes. The men start clipping ends and lighting, following Pierce as he rises.

“Join me for a brandy, gentlemen?”

Natalia and Margaret smoother their smiles with pursed lips. James clears his throat, tipping into the table to whisper, “Now they retreat into a cloud of smoke and congratulate each other on being masters of the universe.”

James predicts their behaviors accurately, with Pierce, Rumlow, and Stark each gathering their bearings. Maria settles besides Margaret, who shifts somewhat uncomfortably in her seat. T’Chaka excuses himself from the gathering with a firm pat on Sam’s shoulder. The warmth which spreads from the contact is quickly drawn out by Pierce’s frozen tone: “Will you be joining us, Wilson? You don't want to stay out here with the women, do you?”

Sam glances Margaret and Natalia’s way. He wouldn’t mind it. “Thanks, but I think I should be heading back.” He decides, and the disappointment which strikes across James’ face leaves his stomach twisting. 

“Probably best.” Pierce approves, “It'll be all business and politics. Wouldn't interest you.” Sam expects him to make a swift exit, ready to leave the experience behind. The hand which he offers between them has Sam take a minor step back. “Good of you to come.” His words are empty, though they hang in the air like a challenge to spit back. Sam passes it, giving Pierce a solid goodbye.

James rises with Sam after his step-father’s disappearance. He knows he’ll have to follow, though he won’t contribute to any conversation. The mere thought of being _alone_ with Pierce for more long hours left a bitter taste on his tongue. “Sam,” He steps before the other like a barrier to the exit doors, “must you go?”

Sam’s gentle smile holds more honesty than anything he had offered to the table all evening. “I’ll have to wake from this dream at some point.” He says. Like his farewell to Pierce, he extends his hand. James grips it as if it was an escape; strong and firm, secure and safe. James forces a sorrowful grin onto his lips, though it falters when he feels Sam slip an object into his palm as he pulls away. Sam turns on his heel, giving a short goodbye to Natalia and Margaret, who waves him off when he attempts to offer a time to return the clothes, before he makes his withdrawal from the room.

James kept his eyes on his retreating form until Sam disappears into the crowd, before looking down at his hand. Between his fingers lies a tiny, folded note. Surreptitiously, he opens the paper, eyes skimming the messy handwriting: _"Make it count. Meet me at the clock at midnight."_

James feels his breath hitch, and he spins on his heel in search for the clock resting upon the mantle of the room’s fireplace. 11:55.

Had they really been so long? Dinners normally seemed to stretch on forever. 

Looking back to his message, James’ eyes jump to the doors and heart pounds in his ears.  He could leave. Would Pierce even notice his absence should he not show up?

He turns to glance across the room to the hideaway the men had claimed their own, only to find Natalia blocking the view – arms crossed tight yet expression surprisingly non-hostile. She appears calm, lit up with a smile.

Her gaze moves down to his fist, where he’s concealed his note, then to the doors. She hadn't missed a thing. “Go.” He opens his mouth to retaliate, but she reassures, “Margaret and I will cover for you.” James’ expression must soften, for she laughs and shoves him towards the exit with, “Have fun.”

She doesn’t need to tell him twice. He bursts out the doors like a sinner into church, hurrying down the corridor to the winding staircase. As he crosses the foyer, he sights Sam at the landing above, silhouetted by moonlight under the crystal dome. His back is to James, studying the ornate clock with its carved figures and aging wood. It strikes the hour.

He sweeps up the steps with little sound. Sam senses him anyway, rattling with nerves he hides behind a cocky smile as he asks: “Want to go to a _real_ party?”

James doesn’t need to think about his answer.


	6. Corner of the Cosmos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> James learns the difference between a gathering and a party.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the delay; college is a bitch when it comes to work. But, finals are over, so updates should return to their frequent schedule.

 A crowd led and alive with music, laughter, and raucous carry on. An ad hoc band is gathered, blaring lively stomping music. People of all ages dance, drink beer, smoke, laugh; even brawl.

This contemporary world the very definition of chaos, and James loves every second.

He's lost in the twisting bodies and pounding of his head until Steve hands him a pint of stout and hoists it, taking position besides James. Sam, meanwhile, dances with Amanda as she stands on his feet, dark hair shielding her face. James, almost to himself, admits: “I didn’t know he was good with kids.”

Steve cranes his neck to watch his friend. “Sam’s good with everyone. He’s a people-person.” He turns back to James, gently nudging him in the side. "Don't think we’ve formally met. The first time I saw you, you stole my best friend away for hours.”

James bites back a smirk, though he teases right back: “Well, you were more interested in putting a drink in my hand then saying hello when I got down here.” He lifts his mug as if it were enough proof, “Didn't strike me as a good conversation starter.”

Steve blinks at the accusation before a grin replaces surprise. He offers the hand not occupied with a glass, “Jerk. I’m Steve Rogers.”

James' expression holds appeal and incredulityas he takes it, “Steve? The artist?”

“ _An_ artist, yes.”

“I’m-”

“I know who you are, James Pierce.” Steve gives his hand a hearty shake. His somewhat malnourished physique masks his strength.

James startles at both his surname and the brawn. “Bucky, please.”

Steve studies him, just as he had with Margaret earlier that day. As if he were searching for a solution to an unspoken question: _Are you a good man?_

He speaks once he's found it, “Well, _Bucky_. ‘S nice to meet you.”

James nods, holding Steve’s gaze for another beat before he’s looking back to the swaying crowd – the song has finished, yet they continue twirling to their own melodies. Eventually, his attention returns to Sam. Steve shifts back to watch him lift the little girl off the floor, holding her high and praising her dancing. Again, Steve nudges James’ side. “If you wanna dance, just go ask. He won’t say no to you.”

An hour ago, James would have dismissed Steve’s assumption. But, two drinks in, James takes the advice.

He sets his glass down – which Steve picks right back up – and makes his way to the pair as Sam is returning Amanda to the somewhat-dented floor. He kneels to the young girl and courteously asks, “May I cut in?”

He receives a scrunched nose and very blunt, “Boys don’t dance with boys.”

Sam comes to James’ aid, brushing a curling strand behind her ear to mutter, “Now that’s not very nice. Bucky just saw how good you were and wants to learn how to dance like you.” James is so preoccupied with the clutch his heart received at hearing his name from Sam’s lips, he barely registers the following inquiry directed his way: “Right?”

Silent, he nods. Sam's smile grips his chest anew.

“You okay with lettin’ me teach him?” Amanda purses her lips together in a tight, thin line. “You know you’re my best girl, Amanda.”  _That_ makes her smile, and the child gives Sam a joyful bob before scampering towards Steve - likely to wonder about his drawings.

Now alone, Sam and James face each other with steady breath and fluttering guts. James is trembling as Sam curls his right hand into his left, and his left hand presses to the small of James’ back; it’s electrifying. James can't hear the music, drowned out by his own heart’s song, so he feels the vibrations instead and tightens his grasp on Sam’s hand, his right finding purchase on the fabric of Sam’s bicep.

“I don't know the steps.” They start with a slow shuffle, James trying to following the light taps of Sam’s shoes.

“Just move with me. Don't think.”

Though a bit awkward at first, James starts to get into the quick side-steps and backwards pivots. With Sam’s gentle guidance and the burning, consuming sensations between their hands or against his back, James finds the rhythm of their movements quickly. It's much easier than ballroom dancing, he thinks.

He grins at Sam as he starts to get the tempo of the stride. However, he stumbles to a halt. “Wait.” He steps away from Sam’s arms, shoves his jacket off, then flings it towards Steve’s direction with trust that the blond may gather it. His hands return in a flurry of haste and they plunge back into the fray, moving with the quickening music. The scene is rowdy: a table gets knocked over as a drunk crashes into it, children scream and clap from mothers laps. And in the middle of it all, James dancing with Sam.

The tune ends in a mad rush. Sam treads back from James with a flourish, cheering on the band with the rest of the crowd. His chest is heaving, a sheen of sweat is on his brow, yet James could say Sam’s undoubtedly beautiful under the dim steerage light.

They move to a table, flushed with lips holding unyielding jubilation. Steve joins them the moment they've settled, handing Sam a glass and offering James’ jacket back. He only waves Steve off, “Keep it. It won’t be missed.” There's a beat in which Steve looks to him in surprise at being given such an expensive item. Then, almost immediately, he’s tugging on the oversize coat.

“How you doin'?” Sam asks, hooking an arm around Steve’s shoulders.

“I’m having fun on the sidelines, don’t you worry.” He laughs, letting himself be pulled into the side-embrace. Then, his eyes catch movement at the entrance of their little party, and his heart leaps into his throat. “I’ll be back.” The promise feels like a lie.

He moves out of Sam’s grasp, diving between couples and under raised mugs to reach the woman who sticks out among the crowd.

Margaret Carter stands at the precipice of the lower step; she stands with her shoulders pulled back, simply watching the commotion around her. Everyone around her is either too distracted or drunk to notice divinity in their presence. Margaret notes Steve the moment he breaches the swell. “I figured you’d be down here.” She speaks with a smile which leaves his stomach twisting. Then she looks back to the crowd, eyes dancing across strange faces. “How’s-”

“James is fine,” He answers the expected question, “Sam’s been keeping him occupied.” He does his best to gesture in the men’s direction.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen him so relaxed.”

“Told you.” Steve gives her a lopsided grin. Margaret only nods, humming behind pursed lips. Steve figured she’d leave after easing her worry, but she doesn’t move an inch away. So, he chances: “Would you like to stay? We have alcohol. Not _good_ alcohol, but it’s better than nothin’.”

Margaret startles at the offer, regaining proper posture. “That’s quite alright. I apologize for overstaying my welcome.”

She takes a half-step up the staircase before Steve reaches for her arm. “I-...we won't mind. You could stay.” He insists. It merely earns him an apologetic sigh.

“I’m not much into parties. I can’t dance to save my life.”

“Hell, neither can I.”

She almost laughs, catching it before it leaves its place between her lungs.  “I appreciate the invitation, Steve. But I think I’ll just go for a walk before heading to bed.”

Disappointment flashes over his features, but Steve drops his arm so she may go. “Well, if you change your mind, you’re welcome here.”

Margaret nods, keeping her surprise at his quick acceptance to herself, then turns back to the staircase. She only takes three steps before her legs take her back, and she calls out: “Steve!”

He spins away from the crowd he has been swallowed into. “I think having someone to walk with would be enjoyable.”

Steve breaks into a bright grin, joy rising from his chest to his eyes. He shoves his way back through the mass. Sam watches his friend disappear up the staircase, hiding his own delight behind the lip of his mug.

James hadn't missed the interactions; his old world slipping into the new. He'd lie to say he wasn't somewhat glad for Steve’s departure. It would have been difficult to take Sam’s hand and lead him towards an empty corner of the deck were Steve in tow.

Sam doesn't question their destination, keeping their fingers locked as they weave through a crowd of drinks and laughter and liberation. Pressing close to keep away from dancers and brawlers, James finds no reason from his impromptu action. He simply wanted to. He simply could. He can blame the alcohol in his system.

On the upper deck, they would be a sight for rumors and controversy; two men, two classes, two races, near enough that their noses brush with little escapes of laughter.

But here, among strangers, no one spares a glance. The realization strikes James like static currents. Down here, no one cared if he drank or smoked. If he smiled, and laughed, and danced. If he was himself. For the first time in twelve years, he feels as if a weight was lifting off his chest, releasing its construction on his lungs; as if he were taking his first breath, and he uses new air to laugh.

"What's funny?"

James doesn't know how to reply; nothing, everything, them, Sam. How can he express the relief he feels, how _freedom_ feels. How it feels to no longer be Pierce's _James_. How it feels to be _Bucky_.

He can't. Thus he settles with: "You're beautiful."

It's enough. Sam's expression shifts, not to disgust or bewilderment, but to revelation. To understanding. To endearment.

Here in their universe, in their corner of a steerage deck, his declaration is safe.

~~~

The stars blaze overhead, so bright and clear one could see the Milky Way.

Bucky and Sam walk along a row of lifeboats, skips in their steps and alcohol in their words. Frivolous from the party, they allow ecstasy to burst out in song:

" _Let me call you sweetheart, I'm in love with you. Let me hear you whisper that you love me too. Keep the love light glowing in your eyes so true. Let me call you sweetheart, I'm in love with you-_ "

They fumble the words and break down into laughter. They had reached the First-Class threshold by the final chorus, but refuse to enter; neither wanting the evening to end. Through the doors, the sound of the ship's orchestra drift gently. Bucky grabs a davit and leans back, staring at the cosmos.

“It’s so grand and endless.” He comments, leaning forwards on the railing. Sam stands a step behind Bucky, admiring the devotee. “They're such small people, Sam.” He abruptly confesses, comfortable grin slipping away like watercolor, “My crowd believes they're giants on earth, but they're not even dust in God's eye. They live inside this tiny champagne bubble, and someday the bubble's going to burst.”

Sam moves forward and leans at the rail alongside, hand just barely brushing Bucky’s; it is the slightest contact imaginable, yet all either one of them can sense is that square inch of skin where their hands meet.

“You're not one of them.” Sam says, “You're different. Better.”

Bucky’s eyes narrow just the slightest, yet the corners wrinkle with laughter. “Well...thank God.”

His eyes stay with Sam’s, shifting his body on their accord. However, they break contact and focus above Sam’s right shoulder. His chest rises with a quick intake of breath, “There’s a shooting star.”

Sam glances over his shoulder, catching the tail of the comet. “My father used to say they were souls going to heaven.”

“I like that.” Bucky comments after some thought. “Aren't we supposed to wish on it?”

Sam studied him, finding themselves drawing nearer, as if they were still tucked away in their quarter - two halves of a star's light finding the other in space's void. It would be so easy to move another couple of inches, to kiss him. Bucky appears to consider it, eyes darting to Sam’s lips for a beat.

“What would you wish for?” Sam questions.

After a beat, James wrenches himself backwards, as if he had come to a paralyzing realization. “Something I can't have.” His smile is apologetic as he wanders to the first-class entrance. “Goodnight, Sam. Thank you.”

The departure leaves Sam with numb fingers and frigid bones. He cannot convince his voice to return until the doors are shut. He whispers Bucky’s name to the distant, outlined shadow yet it's loud enough for the world to hear.

Sufficient for _his_ world to hear.

~~~

“Margaret.”

The evening had drifted into comfortable silence since the couple’s withdrawal from the party; the two enjoying the company, the sea air, and empty deck space.

When Steve’s voice breaks through that tranquility, Margaret whisks her head down from where she’d been peering up – at the constellations. She hums in reply, a mute question, and Steve’s reaction indicates he didn’t expect her to hear.

“Nothing.” His words teetering upon laughter, “Was just thinkin’ about your name.”

“Thinking?”

“Yeah. It’s unique. Haven’t met someone with your kinda name since Brooklyn.”

Margaret’s steps fall a meter behind. “You’re from New York?” He nods. “What was an American city-boy doing in Europe?”

His voice finally dips into laughter. “It was a longer stay than intended. My Ma use to tell stories of how she traveled when she was young. How she wanted to again. When she passed, thought I’d do the travelin’ for her.” Steve’s tone grows gradually somber, but he keeps his head high and masks despondency with amusement: “But, surprise! Traveling is expensive. When I took a boat to France, I couldn’t afford a ride back. Stayed there for about six years.” He rolls a shoulder, as if he could brush those lost years off, “It wasn’t so bad. Paris is pretty. The people there are, too. Plus, I got to meet Sam. And Bucky. And…you.”

Margaret smiles at his comment, head lowering as blush rises to paint her cheeks. Steve still observes - he notes the pastel color and shade for later. “Bucky?” The name processes for Margaret a minute later.

“James.” He clarifies, “He told me he prefers that nickname.” Steve pauses his stride, turning to Margaret entirely.

“You got a nickname? Margaret seems real formal, now that I think about it.”

Margaret’s easy posture straightens again. “Perhaps it’s best to keep this formal, Steve.” She tries insisting.

Steve has none of it: “You’re a friend of a friend, who knows my best friend. Therefore, you’re my friend. And my friends get nicknames.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I call Sam ’ _Sammy_ ,’ he hates it. Then there’s James ‘ _Bucky_ ’ Pierce. So you gotta be Margaret ‘ _Somethin’_ ’ Carter.”

“Are you going to give me a nickname, then?”

Steve ponders for a moment. “How’s Marge?”

“Oh, Good God, _no_.”

“Ret?”

“That’s horrid!” She laughs.

“I don’t got a lot to work with.” He defends.

Margaret lifts her head to the stars with a playful smirk hooking her lips. She considers options, mind wandering to Natalia. “Some friends called me Peggy.”

Steve goes quiet, perhaps considering it, letting it sink in. “Peggy.” He tastes, “I like that. It suits you.”

She smiles, but both slow to a halt as they reach her door. “This was nice. Though, part of me does wish I stayed at that party. It seemed fun.”

Steve shrugs a shoulder, rolling it back in the process. “It was.” He says, “But…I liked this, more. I don’t regret coming with you.”

Margaret considers ducking her head to hide the blush undoubtedly dusting her cheeks. Rather, she holds her head higher. “We should dance, sometime.”

Steve blinks, taken aback by the suggestion. “I told you, I’m not great.” He warns, despite the smile threatening to split his lips, “Wouldn’t wanna step on your toes. I’d need to impress you.”

“I wouldn’t worry about that.”

Steve’s voice catches, syllables stumbling over each other before he manages, “Goodnight, Peggy.”

“Goodnight, Steve.” She turns to the door, primed fingers curling around the knob, though they do not turn it. “I’m holding you to that dance, now.” Margaret shifts a step back towards Steve, who takes his own half-step forwards.

“I’m looking forwards to it.”

That _should_ be the end of it, yet Steve hesitates to make his exit. Only once their silence becomes suffocating does he nod politely to Margaret, shove his hands into his pockets, and spin on his heel leave. Thus, he’s caught off guard – and a bit off balance – when Peggy’s hand moves to his shoulder, halting him in time to press her lips against his cheek.

She’s disappeared behind her door by the time he’s gathered himself.

~~~

For the first night since the ship began her journey, Sam is in bed before Steve. Of course, that doesn’t mean he’s asleep when the blond opens the door – a dazed smile on his lips, twinkle in his eyes, and a bright red stain on his face.

“Where’d you go?” Sam asks, propping himself up on his elbows.

“For a walk. How was the party?”

Sam smiles at the question initially, before he recalls how the night had ended. James had been so close; all Sam would have had to do was lean down. But the kid was quick, moving away before Sam could so much as blink. “I…think he had fun.”

“He sure looked like he was havin’ fun.”

Sam bites his tongue to keep himself from blurting _‘looks like you did, too.’_ Keeping it casual, he settles back under his cover, an arm resting under his pillow. “Who was the dame?”

“Just a friend.” Steve answers too quickly. His blush gave away his lie. But Sam doesn’t push it – at least, not until Steve’s ready to settle down in the bunk above.

“Hey Steve? You got a lil’ something on your face.”

The blond’s hand immediately moves to his cheek, his eyes widening with shock, before he starts roughly scrubbing off the remains of lipstick. Sam laughs, only to be muffled by Steve’s pillow after the blond had thrown it into his face. But he can hear Steve’s laughter, no matter how hard he tries to stifle it under his hands.

 

**Author's Note:**

> It's finally up! I was debating whether to split this monster into chapters, or wait until I was happy with the final section of it. I figure that splitting it up and giving myself deadlines will force myself into working on finishing it.  
> This first chapter was originally meant to be the first 2, but where the first chapter "ended" felt off, so I combined them. Chapter 2 may be up in another month; I'm pretty sure if I keep updating consistent with giving me a month to edit each chapter, I'll end up being happier with them.  
> Hope you guys like it! So happy to finally be uploading this!  
> Feel free to leave comments here or message me on tumblr:  
> goldenicarus.tumblr.com


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